


Michigan Weather (Isn't so Bad)

by esutonia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Flirting, College Student Katsuki Yuuri, Fluff and Humor, M/M, No Angst, Thirsty Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esutonia/pseuds/esutonia
Summary: “Good morning, I’m Victor Nikiforov, here with your daily forecast. It’s shaping up to be a chilly day of yet another volatile week, let’s take a look at our satellite radar. Hamburg at 14, Ann Arbor at 16, Essex at 10—”His voice (oh God, even his voice sounds like an angel’s) worms its way into Yuuri’s head, and he wonders what his regular voice sounds like, what it’d sound like in the—“You’re thirsty for the weatherman, aren’t you?” Phichit waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t suppose I deserve a thank you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ohh boy I had fun writing this
> 
> maybe (just mayybeee) i might add more chapters onto this. hopefully.
> 
> (I really should be studying for finals. Oops.)

When Yuuri moved across the world, he honestly expected more from the United States. He could deal with speaking English, extremely tall people, and the chaos of living abroad. That was to be expected.

But Detroit is Yuuri’s personal hell.

Michigan is quite possibly the worst place that Yuuri’s ever lived in. He’s been nearly hit by bicycles twice, rained on, tripped by icy sidewalks and mildly frost-bitten, all in the same week. He must have done something terrible to deserve this.

The sun shines down on the city, not a cloud in the sky. It’s days like these that Yuuri always underestimates the cold. And when he guesses wrong, he’s usually _very_ wrong.

And that’s why he finds himself huddled under five blankets in his dorm, blasting the space heater and nursing his numb fingers.

“Weather.com said it was 15 degrees outside! How was I supposed to know they meant degrees  _Fahrenheit_?” He whines to Phichit, his roommate.

Phichit rolls his eyes. “ _Duh_ , this is America. Land of the free, home of the dumb measurement systems.” Yuuri groans. “You went outside, right?” Phichit asks. “Why didn’t you put on something warmer when you noticed the cold?”

“I thought it would, you know, _get warmer_ outside?”

Phichit laughs. “Yuuri, you’re so naive. Michigan never gets warmer.”

“I know that _now_.”

Crossing the room, Phichit plants himself next to Yuuri on his bed and pats him on the back (or head? It’s all a big bundle of blankets). “Aww, look, you learned your lesson and that’s what matters.” He thinks for a moment. “Maybe you should check the local weather before you go out every morning. That’s better than Weather.com anyway.”

“How is that better?”

“I dunno, maybe because Channel 3 doesn’t say things like ‘ _Deadly Typhoon in Omaha Brutally Destroys Several Cornfields_ ’ or ‘ _Earthquake in Milwaukee Causes Massive Damage_ ’ or something stupid and sensationalized?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that maybe you should check more, uh,  _reputable_ sources. Or at least get actual reporting instead of clickbait that tricks you into wearing a sweatshirt in sub-zero temperatures.”

“That’s rich. The journalism major telling me to trust local media.”

Phichit shrugs. “Better than Weather.com, I’d say. Come on, I’ll show you the website. They’ve got their own livestream and everything.”

He parts the blankets over Yuuri’s head and grabs his laptop. Sitting down cross-legged next to him, Phichit types away on the keyboard and pulls up the local news station’s website. With a few more clicks, he shoves the computer into Yuuri’s lap. “There. See? You’ll be better prepared now.”

Yuuri glances at Phichit skeptically, clicking on the “weather” tab and scrolling down to an embedded video of the morning forecast. “Have you ever watched the local news?”

“Sometimes, but only the news programs. I kinda like their reporting, so I figure their weather shouldn’t be that bad. I wanna see how Americans do weather programs, too.”

Yuuri hits the play button, and the video begins to buffer.

Tinny, dramatically-uplifting news station music opens the program, with the deep-voiced narrator introducing the weather program. “ _Now live_ _from across Greater Detroit, your weather authority!_ ” Red, white and blue ribbons transition the announcement to the live footage, revealing a satellite map of the area. Immediately, the meteorologist strolls onto the screen and flashes a friendly smile at the camera. Yuuri draws in a breath sharply.

“Holy shit, he’s hot,” he blurts. Phichit bursts out laughing next to him.

The lines of the weatherman’s navy blue suit follow the curves of his body perfectly, the lapels and pale blue tie crisp and orderly. Not a hair on his head is out of place, and it’s jarring how silvery it is compared to his youthful face.

“ _Good morning, I’m Victor Nikiforov, here with your daily forecast. It’s shaping up to be a chilly day of yet another volatile week, let’s take a look at our satellite radar. Hamburg at 14, Ann Arbor at 16, Essex at 10—_ ”

His slightly-accented voice (oh God, even his voice sounds like an angel’s) worms its way into Yuuri’s head, and he wonders what his regular voice sounds like, what it’d sound like in the—

“You’re thirsty for the weatherman, aren’t you?” Phichit waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t suppose I deserve a thank you?”

“Thanks, Phichit,” Yuuri says absently, still focusing on the way Victor’s collar hits at his Adam’s apple and the shininess of his hair. “Yep, the thirst is real.”

Phichit claps Yuuri on the shoulder. “Good luck, my boy,” he jokes. “Let me know when the wedding is. I’d better be the best man.” Somehow, Yuuri no longer feels bothered by the random weather patterns of Detroit. All the more reason to check the weather forecast, anyway.

Maybe living abroad isn’t so bad after all.

“God bless America,” Yuuri breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s going to be a windy day today,” Yuuri says to Phichit, pulling on a scarf and windbreaker as the latter rolls out of bed grumpily.  
> “Let me guess,” Phichit groans, “Mr. Weatherman told you?”  
> “Wrong,” Yuuri interjects matter-of-factly. “His hair told me.”  
> Phichit stares at Yuuri, looking like his soul had ascended to a higher plane of existence and left his body in a Dalí painting. His voice is flat. “His _hair_ told you.”  
>  “Yup!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phichit is a little shit and the ultimate wingman, even if Yuuri currently wants to throttle him. (He won't, don't worry.)
> 
> Also, if Yuuri was a sitcom character, he would be Josh from Drake and Josh. I refuse to believe anything else. Phichit would probably be Megan....

Yuuri feels like he could take on the world, parka and all. He settles into a slightly altered routine, rising every day at 6:00 sharp (no more snooze button-mashing) and pulling up the livestream on his phone as he brushes his teeth. After a few weeks of watching that same gorgeous face light up that little screen every morning, Yuuri can judge Victor’s mood just by the color tie he’s wearing and the number of boroughs he rattles off.

It’s taken Yuuri three years to correctly draw the structure of a nucleotide, but he gets Victor’s habits down pat in three weeks. Victor usually wears blue ties, but switches to pink if he’s feeling cheerful, and stripes if he’s feeling worn. On rare occasions, a funny dog-patterned tie appears. His smiles don’t seem to last as long on rough mornings (they correlate with windy days, which probably has something to do with Victor’s hair looking a little more mussed than usual). Yuuri would time the length of Victor’s customary greeting smiles, but even thirst has standards. Besides, infatuation is a qualitative science; Descartes would probably approve of his intuition.

* * *

“It’s going to be a windy day today,” Yuuri says to Phichit, pulling on a scarf and windbreaker as the latter rolls out of bed grumpily.

“Let me guess,” Phichit groans, “Mr. Weatherman told you?”

“Wrong,” Yuuri interjects matter-of-factly. “His hair told me.”

Phichit stares at Yuuri, looking like his soul had ascended to a higher plane of existence and left his body in a Dalí painting. His voice is flat. “His _hair_ told you.”

“Yup!”

Phichit shakes his head and sighs, letting his breath out slowly. He rubs his eyes. “Yuuri, you’re my friend, but this is worse than the time you got into Oprah. A guy’s got his limits, and you’re testing them right now.”

Yuuri’s eyes narrow. “You’d better not be insulting Oprah.”

Phichit backpedals. “Woah, woah, I would never. I’m just saying that you got over her within a week. It’s been almost a month now, and you seriously need to take a chill pill.”

“You realize how silly you sound, right?”

Phichit resists the urge to facepalm, grimacing instead. “Look,” he starts. “It’s nice that you’re not completely miserable anymore, but you’re not going to get anywhere by crushing on this guy from a phone screen. You gotta go out there and get him. Turn that thirst into something productive, like scoring a hot Russian boyfriend.”

“Ah, but I’m...me. And he’s...hot.”

“Nonsense!” Phichit huffs. “Fine. If you won’t make a move, then _I_ will. I’ve got plenty of pics anyway.” He snatches his phone from his dresser and starts typing out text furiously.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri asks, suspicious.

“Tagging you and Channel 3 on Instagram,” he replies nonchalantly. “It’s a picture of you, glued your cellphone watching the weather section. I added a couple of heart emojis for good mea—”

“For the love of God, Phichit!” Yuuri yells, tackling him for the phone. He bats at Phichit’s arm harmlessly as Phichit waves the phone out of his grasp.

“Too late!” He taunts, sticking out his tongue. “It’s a thirst intervention, and I’m committing you to rehab!”

Yuuri slumps, defeated. “Shit. You’re so mean, you know that?”

“You’ll thank me later. Now get outta here, or you’ll be late for your first lecture.”

He grumbles, sweeping up his messenger back and heading out the door. “You’d better not stick around too long, ‘cause when I get back, you’re gonna get it.”

“Get what?”

“It!” Yuuri slams the door.

Phichit watches the door for a few moments, waiting for him to return, but he doesn’t. He turns back to his phone, smiling deviously as all 60,000 of his followers begin to blow up his feed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he came to the U.S., he expected cold weather. He expected cramped trains and long lab hours. But he never expected to develop a dumb crush on the local weatherman, have it outed by his roommate, then find himself stuck on the same train as said crush. He’s quite done with this nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name: esutonia  
> Cause of Death: second-hand embarrassment, chronic sleep deprivation
> 
> Today is not Yuuri's day, the poor boy. But ironically, it's the luckiest day of his life. He'll thank Phichit later.  
> It's 1 AM. I updated a sadfic a few hours ago so I wanted to cheer up with this. Instead I am happy but extremely embarrassed for poor Yuuri. Poor kid just wants to raise his spinach plants and thirst for the weatherman.
> 
> Lots of Instagram used here. I apologize in advance because I am totally illiterate when it comes to social media. I am getting very scattered (can you tell it's 1 AM?) Oh and also I know nothing about biochemistry so I hope that it was at least a little bit accurate?? I researched, I really did. I need to go to bed now.

Come to think of it, Victor _had_ seem a little less chipper than usual this morning. Yuuri would be too, if his perfectly coiffed hair was so violently assaulted on his morning commute. But being a poor science major (a big turn-off in itself), he could care less about the absurdly high winds buffeting the streets. Sandy particles of ice drift in blades across the pavement, gray with frost. He’s still super pissed at Phichit, though, so the cold air doesn’t bother him as much as it usually does.

He considers checking Instagram and surveying the damage, but decides against it. It’s best to spend his final hours anxiety-free, before he dies of embarrassment at the end of the day. As the white-and-yellow public bus pulls up to the stop, he quickly scans the crowd and breathes a little sigh of relief when he notices nobody giggling or staring at him. It probably won’t last long, though. Of Phichit’s 60,000 followers, 15,000 of them are university students and alumni.

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have been salivating over the weather guy around one of the most well-connected people in Detroit.

* * *

But Yuuri has always had a flair for the dramatic, no matter what his appearance may suggest. So it’s no surprise that he’s still very much alive at the end of the day. (Later, he’ll be glad for it.)

It’s due to a stroke of luck, or perhaps his classmates’ ignorance, that nobody spares Yuuri a second glance during the biochemistry labs. (It’s probably the latter; “science major” has always been synonymous with “introvert” or “social suicide”.) The pH meter keeps wiggling between 6.61 and 6.60 as he adds miniscule drops of salicylic acid to distilled water. He’ll need those solutions for his plant experiment, but Yuuri’s not bothered by it today. His head’s torn between dread at his stupid thirsty crush advertised on Instagram and secret gratitude for Phichit’s intervention.

It’s like the time his mother added Chinkiang vinegar to the katsudon instead of Worcestershire sauce. It was still katsudon, it was still delicious, but the acid slapped his face with regret. (Now, he always smells the katsudon first before taking a bite. After all these years, he still feels betrayed.) Speaking of acid…

He swills the flask again, hoping it’s enough to nudge the meter. The  _brassica rapa_ seeds germinating in Hydroponics won’t wait for long. Ten different solutions to test on his plants, and he’s on solution number two.

Oh, the life of a biochemist.

* * *

The experiment ends up going an hour over the scheduled class time, and it’s only with Yuuri’s (highly effective) sad-eyes and a few well-placed words that the professor lets him finish up, but with the promise that he clean up the lab afterwards. The solutions are so precise, though, that he could cry, and it’s his last class of the day anyway.

He straightens up the lab by himself, painstakingly cleaning the glassware and counters. Clean-up duty is an unenviable task; if shit skews someone’s experiment tomorrow, it’s his ass on the line. And Yuuri has enough to worry about without ten angry classmates threatening to freeze-dry his head.

It’s dark as night by the time he leaves, but it’s only a short walk to the metro from the biochem building. The station is filled with strangers, some of whom (to his embarrassment) look at him curiously. A different crowd of people, going different places. He only realizes that it’s rush hour when there’s easily three times more people milling around than he’s used to seeing.

The train he catches has passengers that he’s never seen before, too. The college students and early workers have come and gone, replaced by the flush of rush-hour traffic. With his head down, he’s one of the first boarders, and it only takes minutes for the small car to fill with people. He checks Instagram, looking for Phichit’s post. (It doesn’t take long; of course Phichit tagged him.)

5,294 likes and 1,043 comments.

He feels like he’s about to pass out.

Luckily, he grabs the pole next to him. With a jolt, the train pulls away from the station and builds up speed. It’s probably far more likely that there are people looking at him right now, watching, judging. Face heating up, he fixes his eyes on the floor and tries to avoid notice. A few pairs of shoes stand near him: beat-up Keds to his right, salt-stained snow boots to his left, shiny brown oxfords across. It doesn’t alleve the feeling that someone’s watching him.

At least he gained 503 new followers. Silver lining?

Reluctantly, he taps his notification screen. He’s been tagged in two posts in the last 24 hours: Phichit’s, obviously, and another, from—

@Victor_3WQVZ. Great.

All the heat seems to have fled his body and gone straight to his face. Of course Victor Nikiforov would see Yuuri at his worst in a stupid Instagram post, then liked it. Then, go on and post a shot of himself (looking beautiful as always) at the meteorology desk, captioned with a blue heart emoji and Yuuri’s username. Shit.

Immediately, he saves Victor’s picture to his camera roll without thinking. It ashames him, the sheer level of thirst he has. He can feel his soul leaving his body to a place where this embarrassment does not exist, but his chest flutters at that single, awful, terrible, stupid, wonderful heart emoji.

Technology never felt so confusing, and not the way the elderly say.

* * *

Yuuri lingers on Victor’s post for a moment longer, admiring the navy blue of his suit and its tailored fit. Come to think of it, he’s never seen Victor from the waist down before. What kind of shoes would he wear? Probably not black, like the kind salarymen had. Brown, maybe. Like the oxfords across from him?

Peeking over his phone slightly, he looks again at the person in the seat across from him. They had navy blue pants too.

Oh no. He already knows where this is headed.

 _Your life is like a fairy tale!_ His mom would say. How true she was.

There’s no way to make this situation less awkward. After all, Victor Nikiforov is sitting right across from him, probably too amused by Yuuri’s embarrassment to get his attention. Or too polite to, maybe. Covering his face would make him look even weirder, and the train’s too crowded for him to get up and move. Doors are probably locked too. There’s no escape.

He looks up, resigned. He hopes that, somewhere, his “embarrassing situation meter” is now wiped clean for the next year or three.

When he came to the U.S., he expected cold weather. He expected cramped trains and long lab hours. But he never expected to develop a dumb crush on the local weatherman, have it outed by his roommate, then find himself stuck on the same train as said crush. He’s quite done with this nonsense. He started this whole mess; he might as well finish it now and become a hermit later.

Victor’s turned slightly to the side, arm curled around the messenger bag on his lap as he scribbles in a tiny spiral notebook. Incredibly, he hasn’t noticed Yuuri yet. Either whatever he’s writing is particularly absorbing, or he’s a lot denser than Yuuri thought. Before his resolve breaks, he makes a move.

“Hi, Victor,” Yuuri says. The name feels unfamiliar on his lips, like he’s not quite privileged enough to use it. But what kind of idiot would call him Mr. Nikiforov, anyway? What else would he say?

To his credit, Victor looks up despite Yuuri’s quiet voice.  _Oh no, his eyes are too pretty_. Also to his credit, he recognizes Yuuri’s face.

“Oh, hello,” he replies. “Sorry, your name is—?”

“Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

He smiles ( _he might die right there, it's so beautiful_ ). “Like your Instagram username? Sorry, I wasn’t sure if it was the same.”

Unconsciously, he fiddles with the edges of his cell phone. He feels the beet-red blush creeping back into his neck. “That’s alright. Um, I’m sorry about my roommate posting about that today—I’m not really that creepy, I swear—”

Victor laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I found it kind of cute, actually.”

The word “cute” registers a second after he says it, and Yuuri turns red in earnest.

“Ah. But if I made you feel uncomfortable or put you in a difficult situation—”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m really sorry—”

“Yuuri! It’s okay. Really.” Victor’s eyes are kind. “I liked it. Follow me back on Instagram, will you?”

Dumbfounded, he looks at Victor blankly. “Sure…?”

His eyes light up. “Great! And here’s an idea—” he digs around in his jacket for his phone and fiddles around with it for a few moments. He holds it up at eye level.

“Smile!” He says.

“What?” There’s a distinct clicking noise of the camera shutter. Victor brings the phone down, reading his words aloud as he types a caption.

“‘Met on the Metro today’...and done,” he says. “I’ll tag you in it. And...post.”

He turns the phone screen around, revealing a new post of Yuuri looking completely surprised with Victor’s caption beneath.

“Did you really just—post that?” Yuuri says weakly.

“Yep!” He replies. “For the fans. Lots of people liked your roommate’s post, and they’ll want to know what happens next.”

“Can you warn me, next time you snap a photo?”

“You look good! I take bad photos of myself all the time.”

“I don’t think any photo of you looks bad.” _Oh no_. He actually said that out loud.

Victor is about to reply before the train lurches to a halt. Yuuri stands up quickly. “This is my stop,” he blurts.

He almost looks disappointed, which makes Yuuri’s heart sink just a little. At least he’s distracted from that last exchange, for the moment. “Oh. Well, I’ll PM you. That _was_ your Instagram username, right?”

“Yes. And again, I’m sorry about what happened today.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not mad. I’d like to talk to you more, Yuuri. I’ll message you later, okay?”

“Sure. See you.” He all but bolts off the train, head down in shame and all the courage from earlier dissolved. The wind slaps him in the face, cutting through his coat. It hasn’t let up since the morning, it seems.

He thinks of Victor’s startling eyes and heart-shaped smile, despite the burn of his cheeks and the smart of his wounded pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor's probably doodling Makkachin in that notebook tbh. Also, I have a chemistry joke:  
> Why does the military use acid? To neutralize the enemy base.
> 
> I'll see myself out now.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You know, we’re like a local trending topic_ , Victor says.
> 
> It’s true. Victor’s post of Yuuri on the train already has 1,440 likes. People have swarmed Yuuri’s bare-bones account and commented on pictures that he forgot he even posted. The patterns of fangirls squealing “ _so cute!_ ” and “ _#victuuri2k17_ ” probably represent most of the comments they’ve both received. An embarrassing twist, but not an unwelcome one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can tell it's an AU because there's good communication between the characters :D
> 
> Phichit is team mom, basically. I love him so much and he takes no shit. Also, Yuuri is pretty much the embodiment of every socially-awkward shut-in on Tumblr, and I have the feeling that he'd do this stupid shit and Victor would love it because he's weak for that cute face too.

“Oh my _gawd!_ ” Phichit cries, face breaking into an ear-to-ear grin. “You are the luckiest little exchange student that ever lived.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Phichit leans over to grab his phone from the nightstand, arm hugging his pillow.

“He probably thinks I’m a freak,” Yuuri groans.

Phichit huffs. “Don’t be so dramatic. He totally likes you! He even told you to message him. Which, come to think of it, you haven’t done yet!”

“It’s only been two hours.”

“Two hours that you _could_ have been spending on him!”

“But I don’t want him to think I’m desperate…”

Phichit hurls his pillow at Yuuri. It bounces off his glasses and drops harmlessly to the carpet. “Mister, you text him _right now!_ ” His voice sounds like Mari’s when she drags him out of bed in the mornings back home.

Cowed, he pretends to cower in fear. “Okay, okay!” Phichit puts his hands on his waist, glaring at Yuuri as he reaches for his phone. “And it’s ‘message’, not ‘text’.”

Phichit puffs up like an angry bull. “Don’t test me, Yuuri.”

He follows Victor on Instagram, then quickly opens up the “Direct Message” screen. He hesitates, the cursor blinking in the message box. “What should I say?”

“Um, how about a hello?” Phichit snorts, shaking his head. “You poor child.”

 _Hi Victor_ , he taps. It’s exactly the same thing he said on the train, but whatever. Anything more creative would look silly. Or thirsty. Well, Victor already knew Yuuri was thirsty, but that didn’t mean he had to _act_ like it. “Add an emoji, maybe?” Phichit says.

He picks a neutral-looking smiley face from his “recent” tab. “Send,” he says, tapping the button before he loses his nerve.

“What does it say?” Phichit crawls off of his bed and onto Yuuri’s, dragging his pillow along. He leans over Yuuri’s shoulder and peeks at the screen.

“Oh my god, Yuuri,” he groans. “What did you do?”

“Do what?” His voice rises in panic. “What did I do?”

“You used the—”

“The _what?_ ”

“You gave him the creepy sun emoji!”

“What?” He looks at the message he sent. Shit, he really did. “Oh, lord.”

Phichit pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s my fault too. I shouldn’t have let you send a simple _message_ unsupervised.”

Yuuri buries his head in his hands. “I’m so stupid.”

Phichit reaches around Yuuri’s shoulders, rubbing circles on his back. “We’ll get through this, kid. Now we’ll know if he’s really a keeper or not.”

Yuuri groans pathetically.

“And I’ll gladly find him and murder him, if that’s what you want.”

“ _No!_ ”

With perfect timing, Yuuri’s phone _pings_ a notification. Still clinging to him, Phichit rests his chin on his shoulder as Yuuri shakily looks at the screen.

 _Hello Yuuri!_ , it says, with the creepy moon emoji.

Phichit wipes away a stray tear. “You’ll thank me at the wedding,” he says.

* * *

“Heh, I gained 196 new followers,” Phichit remarks, scrolling through his feed. “I’m a bit jealous of your five hundred, but I guess it’s only fair.”

Yuuri stops typing his lab report. “Fair that you embarrassed me in front of all your followers?”

“ _And_ got the attention of your crazed thirst-crush? Come on, I’m the ultimate wingman and you know it.”

“Ugh, you’re awful and I love you.”

“Love you too, son.”

* * *

_You know, we’re like a local trending topic_ , Victor says.

It’s true. Victor’s post of Yuuri on the train already has 1,440 likes. People have swarmed Yuuri’s bare-bones account and commented on pictures that he forgot he even posted. The patterns of fangirls squealing “ _so cute!_ ” and “ _#victuuri2k17_ ” probably represent most of the comments they’ve both received. An embarrassing twist, but not an unwelcome one.

 _I hope this doesn’t make things too awkward for you_ , Yuuri replies.

 _Are you kidding? Nothing ever happens at work._ A pause. _Don’t tell anyone I said that_.

Yuuri smiles deviously.  _How much are you willing to pay?_

Victor sends three scared-face emojis.  _You scoundrel!_

_What are you going to do about it?_

_What do you want?_ (winking face)

 _Could I borrow something of yours?_ Here goes nothing, Yuuri thinks.

_?_

_Your phone number. I seem to have misplaced mine._ (“Oh, _no_ , Yuuri!” Phichit screams. “Of all the times you choose to use a dumb pick-up line, you have to do it _now?!_ ”)

His phone pings in a reply a good three minutes later. It’s enough time for Phichit to berate him until he’s huddled under the bedcovers for protection. At least he feels properly ashamed.

 _im dying_ , Victor says. _how can you look so innocent and then drop lines like that?_

_With snarky internal monologues and no filter._

Another blue heart emoji, then a phone number. _Text me rn_ , he says. (“That’s boyfriend material right there,” Phichit whispers. Yuuri shoves him playfully.)

He switches to the text message app and puts in Victor’s number. _Did you give me a fake number?_ He types.

 _You wound me_ , Victor replies. _I would never betray your trust like that_.

Yuuri’s out of things to say, and the conversation hits a lull. He struggles to find something to keep it going on. While Victor’s funny and kind, it’s not the comfortable silence that comes with talking to good friends and family. Not yet, anyway.

Luckily, the gray dotted bubble on the other end pops up, teasingly.

 _Will we see each other on the metro again?_ Victor asks.

Yuuri hesitates, heart sinking. _Probably not. Class usually ends an hour and a half earlier._

 _Still in college, huh?_ Oddly, Victor brushes Yuuri’s answer off like it’s nothing. _What’s your major? Mine was meteorology, obvs._

 _Biochem_. He furrows his brows. _I’m sorry that we can’t meet up every day_.

 _I’m thinking_ , he replies. Thinking of what? The little gray bubble appears, then disappears, than reappears. A good minute passes, him just looking at the white screen under the sheets.

 _Would you like to get coffee sometime?_ He asks.

Yuuri claws his blankets off and hisses at Phichit to get his attention. Removing his headphones, Phichit looks over boredly.

“He wants to get coffee,” Yuuri whispers. Immediately, Phichit’s face brightens.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Say yes!”

“But is it like a friends-thing, or a date? Is he just interested in meeting up?”

Phichit sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yuuri. Listen.” He starts counting off his fingers, head tilted upward in thought. “One: you had a creepy thirst-crush on this guy, and he didn’t even know you.” Yuuri opens his mouth to interrupt, but is silenced by Phichit raising his other hand. “ _But_ , he wasn’t offended.”

“Two,” another finger, “You met him on the metro and talked to him in person. Now, you didn’t give me all the details on what you said, but knowing you, you probably said some pretty embarrassing things. And he liked you! You’re Instagram mutuals now! That’s practically ‘friend’ status, in my book.”

Yuuri feels his face getting redder for the hundredth time that night. “Three: you used the dumbest pick-up line _ever_ , and he  _still_ gave you his number!”

“But—”

“I’m not done yet!” He snaps. “Four, the most important caveat: _he asked you out for coffee_. That is, like, every first-date setting, ever. He’s _flirting_ , Yuuri, and you have to see it!”

“Ah, but I’m not—”

“Stop right there,” Phichit scolds. “You are _not_ a lot of things. But you _are_ enough for Victor Nikiforov, the prettiest weatherman east of the Mississippi. You say yes, _right_ now. _Do it!_ ”

Yuuri’s honestly touched, but he collects himself and turns his phone back on. He takes a deep breath.

_Does tomorrow work for you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do locomotives know where they're going? 
> 
> Lots of training.
> 
> For the science nerds out there, Yuuri’s experimenting on the effects of salicylic acid on plant growth and mitochondrial activity. He’s using brassica rapa plants, presumably for their fast germination time (seriously, they’re named “fast plants”) and their relative lack of genetic variation. Since salicylic acid is the independent variable, he’s adjusting the pH of various salicylic acid solutions. Not like it requires extreme precision, but you know how perfection-oriented Yuuri is. Plus, science majors are meticulous by nature. I don't know what I'm talking about, so please no hard questions :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Yuuri have a heart-to-heart and they're both awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of my guilty fetishes:  
> -Mutual trust and honesty  
> -Witty banter  
> -Reassurance  
> -Unconditional love

Victor texts him a time, Yuuri planning to wait until Victor gets off work so they can take the train together. It’s a balmy 34 degrees outside, the sun peeking out periodically. (“Almost t-shirt weather,” Victor joked on the morning program.)

Phichit has the presence of mind to send him a “thumbs up” text at the station, not that it helps much. It’ll take a lot more than animated confetti and (bad) motivational memes to ease the butterflies in his stomach. (They’re more like angry sparrows at this point, actually.) He went to the biochem lab’s small library to kill time after class, but he spent more time silently stressing than studying. Today, he prepared four more solutions for his experiment; progress, in his book. After years of disappointment, Yuuri’s long mastered the art of taking what he can get.

Although, he never thought he could be “able to get” Victor, the weather guy. It’s a little more than he can handle, to be honest.

They agreed to meet up after Victor got off work, so Yuuri waits an hour past his normal train to take the same one that Victor does. It’s one of the most uncomfortable, nervous hours of his life, even topping Junior year finals. Victor, bless his heart, eases the anxiety by texting him sporadically throughout the day. His last text came at 4:35 PM: a screenshot of his dog through a pet cam, contentedly dozing on his living room couch. _He’s a big sleepyhead_ , he said.

 _Are you supposed to be watching your dog at work?_ Yuuri replied.

 _YES_ , he shot back huffily. And that was the end of that exchange.

The stupid, illogical part of his brain (interestingly enough, it’s also responsible for most of his thirst-fueled decisions) spins at all the possible ways this “date” could go wrong. He breathes deeply in and out, as if it will calm the rattling under his lungs.

He jumps out of his skin at a hand on his shoulder, his heart skipping a beat when he sees Victor leaning next to him closely.

“Long time no see,” he puffs, cloudy breaths coalescing. He looks visibly out-of-breath, two rosy spots on his cheeks and his (still beautiful) hair wind-tossed.

“A-are you okay?” Yuuri asks, concerned.

“Ran here,” he pants. “It’s been a while since I did cardio.” Doubled over, he takes a while to catch his breath.

Come to think of it, Yuuri’s never seen the top of Victor’s head before. His hair really is silver; either that, or he dyes it so often that the roots never show. What would he look like with dark hair? Odd, probably. Silver makes him look that much more striking and angelic, but with the trade-off of appearing prematurely old when viewed from the wrong angle.

Without thinking, he pokes the part of Victor’s hair. Soft hair.

“Is it that thin already?” Victor asks, running a gloved hand through his scalp. _Oh fuck, he did something weird again_.

“I’m so sorry!” Yuuri blurts, all the blood rushing to his face, yanking away his hand. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry—”

“You wound me, Yuuri,” he groans, sagging dramatically. Yuuri props him up in a panic, burning from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Ah, I’m sorry Victor—everything’s okay! Don’t be like that, please—I’m sorry!”

* * *

In the end, Victor ended up apologizing to Yuuri for his theatrics when they boarded the train, Yuuri’s face still pink with embarrassment. He buried his head in his hands like an ostrich in the sand, despite Victor’s apologetic nudging.

“I’ll buy you a blueberry scone if you forgive me,” he pleads. Yuuri says something muffled. “What?” Victor asks. Yuuri finally lifts his head and looks Victor in the eye, an exaggerated pout on his face.

“Make it two and it’s a deal,” Yuuri says. Victor gapes in disbelief—he’s been played like a fiddle, _again_.

He sighs. “Fine. They’re big scones, though; don’t eat them all at once.”

“Oh, one’s for Phichit, my roommate.” Yuuri laughs. “He probably deserves one after all I’ve put him through.”

“May I ask why?”

“Phichit can get pretty scary. You don’t want this little scene getting back to him, do you?”

He gasps indignantly, hand over his chest. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you! First you steal my number, then you steal my heart.”

“What can I say? I’m a master thief,” Yuuri replies, waggling his eyebrows the way he’s seen Phichit do numerous times.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I learned from the best.” They’re both doubled over in fits of giggles, hands over their mouths to smother their laughter. They get funny looks from the riders around them, but for once Yuuri can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

 Victor leads them to a hole-in-the-wall coffeeshop, occupying a narrow storefront in a gentrified part of town halfway between Yuuri’s usual stop and his. Whether it’s intentional or not, Yuuri can’t say, but he appreciates the thought Victor put into the location. It’s not too ostentatious as one might expect from a hipster business; in fact, it reminds Yuuri of the Starbucks in Japan, sans green-lettered sign and ridiculously high prices.

True to his word, Victor buys Yuuri two blueberry scones (which really are quite large, even by American standards) and their coffees. Yuuri protests, but Victor simply hands the barista a twenty and tells her to keep the change without letting him get a word in edgewise.

“You can buy me coffee next time,” Victor says, and Yuuri’s heart soars at the thought of _next time_. Why was he bothering with coffee, anyway, when Victor himself made him so awake?

Even though it’s tiny compared to its neighbors, the café has an undeniably cozy feel, most of its lighting coming through the glass storefront. Quiet at this time of day, the only other people there are college students reading from their MacBooks and TAs grading papers.

“Do you do this with all your fans?” Yuuri teases. “Post pictures of them on Instagram and take them out for coffee?”

Victor sips his latte casually. “Only the cute ones.”

“Oh, so you think I’m cute?”

He looks upward and bobbles his head. “Hmm, fair-to-middling.”

“Hah, says the guy with the silver hair and receding hairline.”

“Ouch. I guess I deserved that—wait, what happened to you being all obsessed with me?”

“You’re pretty...with the right lighting.”

“Okay, you win! I give up. I’ll have to go to the ER for these burns.”

Yuuri giggles in the middle of a bite, a few scone crumbs falling onto the table. He brushes them onto a napkin and wipes them away from his mouth. Pale foam collects on the surface of his Americano. The coffee is strong, but not bitter, he notes.

“But really, why are you doing this?” He asks, still staring at his cup.

“Doing what?” Victor’s cup clinks on the table.

“Humoring me.”

“Yuuri,” he says seriously. “I was kidding about the ‘taking fans for coffee’ thing I said earlier. This isn’t something I normally do, at all.”

“But…” He folds his hands under the table. “You’re...you, and I’m...me.”

“What’s wrong with that? I like that you are...the way that you are.”

For once, Victor’s the one getting tongue-tied. He snorts, despite his nervousness. “You don’t mind being crushed on by a nerdy college guy, who’s not nearly as outgoing and charming as you?”

“Maybe _you_ don’t think you’re worth my time, but _I_ do.” Victor’s shadow inches closer. Yuuri looks up and catches Victor’s bright eyes, piercing but not unkind.

“I’ll be honest,” Victor says, “I _was_ a little surprised, when I saw Phichit’s post. Most people are only interested in me because they see me every day, so I didn’t think you were all that different. But when I met you, I saw that you were so much than your picture. You acted _normal_.”

Yuuri laughs dryly. “You thought _that_ was normal?”

“Well, yeah. I haven’t had light conversation like that since college. I like what I do at work, but it’s all fake. At the end of the day, the reporters are just coworkers, and we’re all too burned-out by playing PR to socialize.”

“Whereas I’m so socially anxious that I hardly know how to interact with people normally.”

“That’s fine, Yuuri. I don’t feel like sharing your humor with anyone else. I want to keep you all to myself.”

“Like...as a friend? Or what?”

Victor looks away, shifting slightly. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Yuuri smiles. “I didn’t spend a month analyzing your tie patterns thinking, ‘wow, I really wanna be friends with this guy’.”

He shifts his eyes downward, silver bangs falling in his face. “Right. Guess I was being silly again, huh?”

“I don’t mind.” Yuuri drains the last of his coffee from his cup, wrapping the other scone in napkins and sticking it in his bag. A faint smile plays on Victor’s lips as he studies the patterns on the dark wood table. “When do you want to meet up again?”

“This weekend, maybe?” Victor says hopefully. “Or next week?”

He smiles. “I’ll text you.”

“I’d like that. Try not to roast me too much, please? My feelings are quite fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Yuuri replies sarcastically.

They stack their empty cups neatly and push in the chairs, Victor holding the door open for Yuuri on the way out. They hesitate under the awning next to the spindly outdoor chairs, clearly about to part ways.

“See you round,” Victor says.

“You too.” Yuuri replies. He steps forward ever so slightly and falters— _oh, fuck it_ —rising on his toes to kiss Victor on the cheek. Pulling away quickly, he gives him a last wave and walks briskly in the opposite direction, trying to ignore the burning creeping back into his face.

Head down, he doesn’t see the stupid grin and pink cheeks blossoming on Victor’s face as he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost sick, how fluffy this fluff is. Believe it or not, 40% of my writing process is stuff that I planned for, and 60% is just random shit that I made up on the spot. Like I planned Victor to be all out-of-breath by running to meet Yuuri, but I did NOT plan that head-poke in advance OTL. But I can't bring myself to change anything about it because the results are actually not terrible. Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, Phichit.”
> 
> “That’s what love’s supposed to be! Flying blind and hoping for the best!” His eyes light up. “Ooh, I like that quote. I’d better write it down for the next time I write an editorial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok you remember when I tagged this fic “no angst”? Well I lied, BUT DO NOT WORRY IT IS STILL WHOLESOME MY FRIENDS (this is some Full House shit, for real)  
> Yuuri is me irl and I would be very scared in a relationship too tbh

“How’d it go?” Phichit said, not even stopping to greet Yuuri as he dropped his bag on the dorm floor and flopped into bed. “How’s the pain, on a scale from one to ten?”

Yuuri groans indistinctly, pillow smothering his face.

“Yuuri, use your words,” Phichit says gently. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk.”

He throws the pillow off the side of the bed, where it sags pathetically. “Awful.”

“Ugh, stop being so dramatic. It couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

“Fine, fine. You want to hear the story of how I embarrassed myself for the millionth time?”

“Always room for the scrapbook, as they say.”

Yuuri inhales sharply, covering his eyes with his sleeve. His words slur together as they all tumble out in a flood. “Objectively speaking it wasn’t a bad date, okay? We talked about stuff and he was all cute as usual and then he said he liked me? He didn’t say it like that but it was implied, y’know. And then I kissed him on the cheek and ran away like an idiot and _oh_ it was so _bad_ , Phichit, you don’t even know.”

Phichit gasps, eyes widening in amazement. “Aww, you two are so cute! It’s like you’re in a shoujo-ai anime or something.”

“Oh, but it was so _bad_! Like, ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’ bad!”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that Matthew McConaughey was _so_ unappreciated in rom-coms, _and_ he’s a fucking great actor in his own right—but Yuuri, seriously, you _have_ to stop doubting yourself. You’re doing great!”

“I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, Phichit.”

“That’s what love’s _supposed_ to be! Flying blind and hoping for the best!” His eyes light up. “Ooh, I like that quote. I’d better write it down for the next time I write an editorial.” Rooting through his desk drawers, he scribbles it on a crumpled piece of yellow lined paper.

“Flying...blind….” Phichit mutters, pen scratching away furiously. For a moment, the room is silent, save for the sound of writing and footsteps down the hall. His chest tightens unpleasantly.

“I hate it, Phichit,” Yuuri says suddenly. “Being so nervous and flustered all the time. I feel like I’m always running away, and it’s not fair to him.” It’s like a cold fist gripping his insides, freezing the cells until they die, withered and black. He studies the woven pattern of his blanket, stroking the tiny folds in the fabric.

Phichit looks up, eyes softening. Crossing the room, he scoots Yuuri’s legs aside and settles down beside him. Like a loving mother, he tucks the blankets around Yuuri’s shoulders in a cocoon and hiding everything under the covers. He bites his lip, for once out of things to say.

“I really want to help you, Yuuri,” he says gently. “You’re a good friend, and I can try to understand how you’re feeling, but...I’ll never  _be_ you.”

He sniffs wetly. “I know.” The blankets still smell a bit like the soap in his family’s onsen. It’s a comforting, if remote, memory.

“I’m sorry for putting that photo of you out there for everyone to see. I thought it was funny at the time, but I shouldn't have put you in that situation.” He shifts on the bed, as if uncomfortable.

“I’m not mad, Phichit,” Yuuri says. “If you hadn’t done that, I never would have met Victor, and we wouldn’t be here right now.”

They sit in silence for a while.

Finally, Phichit responds. “I can’t tell you exactly what you have to do to gain more confidence in yourself. But, well, whatever you’re feeling for Victor, he’s willing to meet you halfway. You see it too, don’t you? You don’t have to climb mountains, Yuuri. Sometimes it’s just being brave enough to take the first step.”

Yuuri sighs, muffled under the covers. He pulls his hand away from his eyes and throws off the blankets, glancing at Phichit fondly. “Why do you always seem to know what to say?”

Phichit winks. “I’m a journalism major, remember? Speaking of which, what did I just say? I gotta write that down, I’m just a fountain of deep quotes tonight!”

He scrambles off the bed and hunts for his pen and paper. Across the room again, Phichit scribbles down the words as Yuuri dictates, a small smile on his lips.

* * *

 He doesn’t text Victor that night, his head still swimming after he had long since gone to bed. Though his eyes are practically blind without glasses, he pretends to count the dots on their tiled ceiling to pass the sleeplessness. It’s a testament to how little human interaction he’s actually had that he can’t get the day out of his mind.

He can’t remember the last time he dated. Probably never had, considering his aversion to people and bookish nature. But that date hadn’t been a disaster, had it? Victor had given him that blushing, nervous look-away; that struck, surprised face; that crinkle-eyed, heart-shaped smile. Already, he had seen more expressions from him than he even thought possible.

Victor wasn’t just a pretty face on a backlit screen; he was ditzy, dramatic, and delightful. Yuuri’s fear was still there, but it had changed. He was no longer afraid of being unworthy of the idol he had foolishly worshipped; he was afraid of losing someone so unabashedly genuine and vulnerable.

Victor hadn’t laughed, when Yuuri’s complicated layers were ripped off in one fell swoop and laid bare for the whole world to ogle at. A fanatical, rabid stan like Yuuri wasn’t funny to Victor. Instead, Victor cut away his perfect facade too, had shown Yuuri that he wasn’t perfect, either. That he had insecurities and fears as well. Yuuri hadn’t realized how lonely and scared he was until he jumped into the deep end, and Victor dived after him without a moment’s hesitation. Perhaps Victor was scared, too.

Maybe he was someone worth staying by.

They’d trip and stumble on bumpy, thin ice; but with arms entwined, they would always catch each other.

* * *

 “ _It’s going to be quite the scorcher today_ ,” TV-Victor says dryly. “ _24 in Essex, 20 in Hamburg, 24 in Ann Arbor, currently 23 downtown, windchill will drop those temperatures by a few degrees as you head off to work or school today_.” It might be his drowsy, sleep-numbed imagination, but he could swear that Victor looks at the camera just a second longer than he usually does.

“ _As always, Michigan weather is quite volatile, so bundle up for the morning commute._ ” He winks; it’s nearly imperceptible to Yuuri, downright invisible to anyone without his level of focus. “You tease,” Yuuri mutters. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s wearing that dumb dog-patterned tie.

“ _Luckily, the rest of the week looks snow-free and above-freezing, high of 38 on Saturday, low of 29 into Sunday._ ” He steps away from the green-screen displaying the weekend forecast, and all too soon the camera cuts away to the anchors.

“Weather actually looks tolerable this weekend,” he says to Phichit while he brushes his teeth.

Sleepily, Phichit rolls over in bed. A chunk of his hair sticks straight up, feathered out. “Give it a minute,” he grumbles. “Never trust the weatherman.” He’s asleep again within a minute, the even rise and fall of the blankets the only indication of life from his side of the room.

The livestream glows from the backlit screen, cheerily proclaiming the days ahead. Maybe a few months ago, Yuuri would have groaned at the abysmal temperatures, slogged through the day in a miserable heap. But Midwesterners are made of tougher stuff, whether they’re born or made. And forecasts are forecasts, whether they change or not. It’s a risk they all know.

“Who knows?” Yuuri mumbles. “Some chances are worth taking.”

* * *

_Got plans on Saturday?_ He texts Victor, midday. On his way across campus, the clouds cast a gray air around every miserable corner.

He replies not a minute later, but Yuuri doesn’t point it out—poking fun at Victor’s inattentiveness on the job is only so fun, after all.

 _No_ , Victor replies, this with a winking-face added at the end.

_What’s your shoe size?_

_Why, you want to go bowling?_ An emoji with a bowling ball and pins. Who comes up with this stuff? And why would Victor spend a good three minutes looking for _that_ particular one?

Yuuri smiles despite himself, as if Victor could see him.

 _Something like that_ , he texts.

The sun breaks through the cloudy haze, touching his hair and warming his back as if approving of his plans. It’s a nice day today, subzero temperatures and all.

It’s not so bad in Michigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed last chapter's joke, so here's two of them for your pain/enjoyment.
> 
> What do Winnie the Pooh and Alexander the Great have in common? The same middle name.
> 
> You find yourself in a room with three doors. Two of them lead to certain death, while one leads home (you must pick one). The first door has a picture of Will Smith on it. The second door has a picture of Leonard Nimoy on it, and the third door has a picture of Tom Cruise on it. Which door leads home?
> 
> (The first door, because where there's a Will, there's a way.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry.”  
> Victor gives him a sardonic smile. “We both didn’t know much about each other, did we?”  
> “I guess not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, this chapter hit me right in the feels. This got so long that I had to split the chapter into two parts, so apologies for the long wait.
> 
> I suggest you check out [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVOj1PxGiUY) to get an idea of what I'm talking about. There's a lot of Detroit scenery mentioned here (which I researched beforehand, by the way) and lots of talk about the People Mover, Detroit's downtown train. Yes, it actually is empty quite often, and yes, these two idiots love the train. I'd ride it all the time if I lived there, honestly.

The sun illuminates the icy sidewalks as he scurries across campus, skirting his way around the slippery patches. It’s not anywhere near this month’s Skating Club meeting, but the girl at the front desk’s got a weakness for sad eyes and messy hair, and within five minutes he has his hands on two pairs of old, dull figure skates sitting in the back. A few passes of oil remove the rust spots, but it’s as much as he can do. Just as well; he hasn’t used sharpened blades in years.

Thursday and Friday pass quietly, no cheerful chimes of phone notifications. Perhaps they’re both a bit nervous. The _brassica_ plants sprouting in the Hydroponics lab grow faster than Yuuri can mix up acid solutions, which stresses him to no end. On top of that, he has lectures to attend, discussions to prep, and chapters to review.

He calls his mother on Thursday night, half a world away from Hasetsu. She fusses and indulges in stories (“Remember Maraoka-kun, from elementary school? He’s marrying a girl from Kyoto this summer! Oh, Yuuri, _when_ will you visit?”) until he’s too tired to keep his head up. The heavy longing for katsudon and the onsen never goes away, pretty weathermen or not.

He wonders if Victor would ever meet his parents someday, but doesn’t mention him to his mother. There’s no telling what might happen down the road.

(Yuuri likes to dream, though.)

* * *

At the eleventh hour he sends a text: simply a time and train stop. They meet halfway as they always have, and if Yuuri were more poetic he’d say that was a metaphor for something. The pairs of ice skates feel clunky in his backpack, more used to carrying flat books. Doves flutter in his chest irritably.

Even with the lack of people roaming the People Mover station, it’s still warm enough that breath doesn’t condense into puffs and arms don’t need to be huddled together. Beyond the glass of the station, the sun is definitely on its descent. Detroit might be throwing winter’s bear-hug off, but the days refuse to lengthen.

He’d ride the train all around the city just to see the Detroit River on the way to Joe Louis Arena, if he had the time. If he could take a giant eraser and smudge out Windsor’s skyline, it could almost be the same view from the beach in Hasetsu. It wouldn’t be a bad substitute.

But of all places abroad, Yuuri could not imagine being anywhere else; and life was not so much lonely as it was unfamiliar. Perhaps everyone was, like him, a puzzle piece searching for its place. Bless his lucky stars, Detroit was a sea of half a million pieces. So many combinations and configurations, and in there was the perfect match. Wasn’t that so much easier than his small town, where everything seemed to have an immovable home?

The outline of a dark peacoat hovers near him. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Victor says, tilting his head as if trying to get a better view. “Where did you live before?”

Yuuri glances at Victor, gauging his thoughts. His eyes are wistful, admiring the skyline in a way not unlike himself. “What do you mean?” Yuuri asks.

“Anyone who’s lived here their whole life doesn’t look down upon Detroit so kindly.” He says casually, like it’s a fact. In a sudden, exaggerated spaghetti-western drawl he says, “You ain’t from ‘round here, are you?”

Yuuri snorts. Attempting to summon all his prior knowledge of American movies, he tries on the southern accent. “I grew up a poor dirt farmer in Missi―Miss-iss-iss-piss-pi.” He dissolves into giggles, and Victor laughs. “I can’t pronounce that word,” Yuuri whines.

“I’ll help you,” Victor says, grinning. “Say it with me―Miss-iss-i-ppi.” Yuuri stumbles on the syllables, the order unfamiliar to him, but Victor’s expression is good-natured and bright.

“I had to learn how to say it for national forecasts,” he says. “Don’t ask me how to spell it, though.” A siren wails in the distance; little flashing police lights pop in and out between the buildings. Yuuri takes his eyes away and fiddles with the straps of his backpack.

“But really,” Yuuri says, “I lived my whole life in Japan. Not in Missi―whatever, if you couldn’t tell.”

Victor’s eyes widen comically. “ _What_? You had me totally fooled.” Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Where are _you_ from, then?” He asks.

“St. Petersburg, where the winters are much colder,” he replies proudly. “But I have to admit, the Americans have much better food.”

“And better hairlines.”

Victor grimaces dramatically. “Every time we talk, you hurt me. Who taught you to be so mean?”

“Only the best. Come on.”

He takes Victor lightly by the arm, leading him down the steps to the street below.

“Where are we going?” Victor asks.

“Renaissance Center,” he replies. “I’d take the train there, but…”

“It’s faster to walk.”

“My only complaint with the People Mover.”

“Hah, I know a few guys who’d disagree with the  _only_ part.”

His heart thrums and the excitement in his veins overshadows the childish fright of having Victor’s hand in his own. The people around them grow farther apart as they fly down the sidewalk, hands entwined like it’s nothing at all.

(It means everything to Yuuri, though.)

“You ever ice skated before?” Yuuri asks.

“I’m pretty bad, just warning you,” Victor replies.

They stop past the Peter Stroh Memorial, at a little pond that Yuuri knows is still frozen at this time of year. He sets down the bag and hands Victor a pair of ice skates, which he eyes amusedly. “Not exactly bowling shoes, huh?”

“Unfortunately. You know how to lace those up?”

The grasses near the riverbank crunch underfoot, snow blanketing the patches between. Yuuri guides Victor by both hands to the ice. He wobbles like a newborn lamb, giving Yuuri a helpless smile while he leans forward to steady himself. Yuuri glides over to link his arm instead, and they wobble together on the bumpy ice.

“Sorry this isn’t bowling,” Yuuri says, worrying his lip.

“Yuuri,” Victor’s voice is gentle. “I was joking. I’m having fun, don’t worry.” He stumbles, Yuuri catching and steadying him. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

For a long while, they slide around in unsteady circles; arms entwined and the sun setting along the shore. The city is quiet save for the occasional siren and the stuttered grinding of their blades.

“Do you skate often?” Victor asks.

Yuuri stares at his feet. “I used to, in Hasetsu—my hometown. Some friends of mine own an ice rink, and I used to go there a lot. Never went professional, though.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “I was scared. I don’t think I was prepared to give up everything that it took. I’d have to leave my parents and sister and dog…”

“Dog?”

“His name was Vicchan. A poodle...he died a few years ago.”

Victor’s face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have rubbed Makkachin in your face so much if I had known it would make you sad.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, and it’s in the past. Besides, I liked getting photos from you.”

They’re silent. After a few moments, Victor says, “I know another ‘Yuuri’, too...although, he spells it differently. One of the producer’s kids who comes by the studio often.”

“Is he better than me?”

“What?” Victor squawks. “As if anyone could be a better Yuuri than you!” Yuuri laughs.

“He’s in that ‘teen angst’ stage,” he continues. “Little shit, but not a bad kid.”

“Ha, I used to be like that too.”

“For some reason, I find that quite believable.”

Yuuri can’t remember how many times they’ve rounded the pond, but he can see the light trails of shaved ice ringing the shore. A bumpy patch of ice catches Yuuri’s toepick, causing him to teeter slightly. Like lightning, Victor’s grip tightens on Yuuri’s arm and keeps him from falling.

“You’re better at this than you said you were,” Yuuri teases.

Victor hesitates, expression sheepish. “Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“I was captain of the Skating Club in college.” As if proving his point, Victor lets go of Yuuri’s arm and coasts lazily, one foot on the ice and arms aloft.

“You mean to tell me,” Yuuri says, aghast, “that you were _pretendin_ _g_ to be bad at skating?”

“Yep,” he chirps. He builds up speed, skating a semicircle behind Yuuri before pulling off a twizzle with his hands behind his back. “I liked having you hold my arm, though. It was so cute.”

“So I had us skating in a circle like idiots because of _you_?”

Victor shrinks slightly, eyes downcast. “Maybe.”

“Why, you—” Yuuri lightly shoves Victor, enough to knock off his rocker turn. He responds by spinning Yuuri by the hand so he has no choice but to do a silly pirouette to stay upright. Leaving him scrambling for purchase, Victor continues to do small jumps and step sequences, almost as if he’s bragging. _Showoff_. Yuuri grimaces. He regains his footing and builds up speed toward the far side of the pond, capping it off with a slow single axle (the only jump he dares to try on such bumpy ice). The skate hits the pond with a solid _crack_ , but the ice holds. Victor follows suit with an unsteady Lutz, just barely keeping his balance.

Yuuri applauds politely. “Truce?” He calls, with a grin.

“Truce,” Victor agrees. “Before someone breaks their neck.”

It’s nearly sunset by now. The ice is awash with bright oranges and pinks, almost shimmering. The snowbanks gleam gold and the sun hovers dangerously above the skyscrapers across the river.

“Wanna get out of here?” Yuuri says. “Before it gets dark.”

“Sure. Have any idea where?”

“I don’t care.”

Victor smiles, heart-shaped. “I’ll pick, then.”

They sit on the sidewalk to unlace their skates, the River Walk lonesome. Yuuri pokes the part in Victor’s hair as he’s on the ground, which earns him a pouty glare. He doesn’t apologize. With the backpack on his shoulders, Yuuri lets Victor guide him this time, past the memorials and creeks and back into the city.

* * *

 The train slides to the station easily, a gentle chime signalling its halt. Although the train’s never packed like the bus, it’s also a rare sight to see it completely empty.

“In all my years here, I’ve never taken an empty train,” Victor says.

“I have,” Yuuri replies. “Only a few times, but it’s nice. It’s worth taking the extra time to ride the train. I never get tired of the view.”

Victor nods. “I could look out here all day.”

A devilish grin spreads on Yuuri’s face. “Wanna do it sometime?”

“What, ride the train _all_ day? I would love to.”

The train dips through glassy buildings, temporarily plunging the cars into shadow before emerging into the fading daylight. Little people on the streets mill about aimlessly, cars driving on the streets below. Yuuri walks up and down the train, taking in the view from both sides.

“Why weather?” Yuuri says suddenly. “And in America?”

Victor stretches out across two seats, watching the buildings pass slowly. “You want the long answer, or the short answer?”

“Victor, this is the train. We’ve got time.”

“Alright.” His gaze is faraway. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How so?”

“To be truthful, I don’t like meteorology _that_ much. But I don’t think I’d be good at anything else. I was lucky enough to get a job here, so I could get a visa and stay in the country.”

“You were pretty good at ice skating,” Yuuri points out.

He winces. “I was. I even went professional for a few years, in Russia. But I got knocked out of that career early, and it’s still hard to look back on those days.”

“I’m sorry.”

Victor gives him a sardonic smile. “We both didn’t know much about each other, did we?”

“I guess not.”

“Come down here,” Victor says, tugging Yuuri’s gloved hand. Dutifully, he settles on a chair across the aisle. His blue eyes sparkle and Yuuri already feels like melting.

“I want to learn about you, Yuuri,” he whispers. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time.”

He flushes, looking away. “Ah…I’m not—I mean, thanks.” It takes herculean effort to make eye contact, every nerve in his body firing in bursts. “I wish I knew more about you, too.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Yeah.”

Their cheeks are pink, but the train is warm. It dips into the empty station, the tunnel darkening the cars. In the dim light, Yuuri can just make out the shape of Victor’s jaw, the way his pale eyelashes form delicate wings over his half-lidded eyes. One elbow propped on the armrest, Victor’s head cocks slightly, and the way his fringe moves along with it is mesmerizing. He purses his lips as if considering something, then leans a little forward.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “May I—”

“Yeah.”

Before he loses his nerve, Yuuri shoves himself forward. Victor moves as well, slowly yet deliberately with one hand grasping the bar. Yuuri closes his eyes, sensing the warmth radiating from Victor’s face. They share a chaste kiss there, shadowed in the deserted train station in the privacy of darkness. His other hand moves up to cup Yuuri’s cheek, soft leather resting against his skin as if it belonged there. Long eyelashes and fine hair ghost over Yuuri’s forehead and it may as well be summer in March, his body is so warm.

But it’s the cheerful chime of the train that interrupts so rudely, a cool disembodied voice announcing the next station. Yuuri draws back, face still burning, but for once not in embarrassment.

Victor watches him fondly through lowered eyelids, the hint of a smile on his rosy lips.

“I was about to ask you to dinner, but I take that as a yes?” He teases. “Not what I was going for, but I didn’t hate it.”

Yuuri swats him with a glove, still red in the face. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but with no malice in his voice.

“Would you like me to make it up to you?”

A second of silence hangs in the air, nothing but the train’s low roar between them. Finally, Yuuri leans forward in the seat, eyes of adoration and expression soft.

“Yes.”

From opposite sides of the aisle, they meet halfway, hands gentle and lips steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you thought this chapter was going to be sad, because this was a very pleasant bamboozle to execute. My favorite AUs are the ones where nothing bad happens and they live happily ever after, which says a lot about the kinds of series I watch... :(
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, I almost forgot:  
> What happened to the psychoanalyst when he went skating for the first time? A Freudian slip.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor kisses Yuuri on the head in the elevator; his hair smells like soap and the cold.  
> “I feel like I’m always taking, and you’re always giving,” Yuuri mumbles.  
> “Oh, Yuuri,” Victor breathes, “You don’t know what you’ve done for _me_.”  
>  “What is that?”  
> A secret smile plays on Victor’s face. “Someday you’ll know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, bamboozlement and lazy banter abound! Sorry in advance for the mood whiplash, please protect your neck and keep your extremities inside the vehicle at all times.

With flushed faces and a tinge of regret, they disembark and breeze down the blocks, the setting sun chasing their backs. Victor’s hand is warm, and Yuuri thanks his lucky stars that he can’t tell how sweaty his palms are underneath the leather. In fading light and creeping cold, their breath forms clouds in earnest and Yuuri can feel the air leeching at his extremities.

Michigan Avenue glows invitingly, neon lights casting a bluish hue over the street. Though the buildings are still dilapidated and old, middle-class hipsters have made quick work of Detroit’s decaying districts. Victor ushers them into a dimly-lit bistro, one so ornately decorated that it’s hard to believe that they’re still in the same year.

“How do you always find these places?” Yuuri marvels, examining the clean vinyl menus and silverware bundles.

“I share the same desk with Detroit’s food columnist,” he replies. “Though I suspect he gets most of his review ideas from Yelp.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing, in this case.”

They settle back with glasses of wine, the house red going down like juice and a buzz in their veins. (“Did you know some rosé wines are just white wine mixed with red?” Victor says. At seeing the aghast look on Yuuri’s face, he adds: “I know. You’ll never feel good about drinking it again.”)

“So what do you _do_ most of the day, at work?” Yuuri asks. “I mean, you’re only ever on the air for, what, half an hour at a time? What do you do in between?”

Victor plays with his fringe, tipping his head up as if deep in thought. “Hmm, surreptitiously browse Instagram, send Snapchats to the anchors while they’re on-air...watch Makkachin on the dog camera, mostly. Best investment I ever made.”

Yuuri furrows his brows. “He’s _that_ interesting?”

“Hey, you’ve never seen him in action!” Victor shoots back. “Sneaky little bugger gets into all sorts of trouble when I’m not around; it was so even worse before I got a dog walker. He’d better not be chewing up the couch right now.”

Yuuri feels so warm; the ply of wine and food lulls him into comfortable conversation. There’s none of the stress that he generally associates with the words “dinner” and “date”.

“What do _you_ usually do on weekends?” Victor asks, a slight headiness in his voice. “Besides go on hot dates with guys on TV.”

Yuuri blushes beet red. It takes him a few moments to join his syllables together in a way that sounds both coherent and intelligent. “Ah...well, nothing, usually.”

Victor raises his eyebrows. “Nothing?”

“Well, sometimes Phichit’ll drag me to a frat party or something,” he says, squirming uncomfortably. “It’s not pretty.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“What, like I’d keep photos of myself being embarrassing and drunk at a party?”

“So?” Victor’s eyes crinkle at the corners mischievously. “The moral of the story is, I get embarrassing pictures of Yuuri from someone else?”

“Ugh,” Yuuri grumbles. “Sure. You’re clearly looking for me to agree with you anyway.”

“Well, I don’t really care about embarrassing photos of you that much.” Victor smiles behind the rim of his glass. “You’re cute in any photo, moreso in person.”

“Are you aware of what you’re saying?” Yuuri replies, his cheeks still blushing pink. “Someday I’ll write down all the bad lines you’re saying and I’ll read them out to you. Then you’ll see how sappy you’re being.”

“Aw, come on, Yuuri,” Victor whines, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Why can’t you just accept the fact that you’re amazing, and cute, and worthy of my attention?”

“I’m coming around to it!” Yuuri retorts. “Although, it doesn’t help when you’re always throwing romantic zingers left and right. At least _I_ use my dumb pick-up lines sparingly.”

Victor’s voice drops an octave, hovering just above a whisper. “I can embarrass you more after dinner, if you’d like.”

That, he hadn’t expected.

Yuuri averts his eyes and draws in a breath, knowing that Victor Nikiforov will someday be the death of him. He stares at Victor’s hand on his own and the charming, puppy-dog expression on his face. _Oh no, it’s cute_. He must be more buzzed than he thought.

“Fine.” He watches Victor’s coquettish smile turn into a smirk, oddly triumphant.

“So you admit that my cheesy one-liners worked, don’t you?” Victor says, an irritatingly winning look in his eye that would earn him a smack over the head if Yuuri didn’t find it so irritatingly adorable.

“Gloat another day, Nikiforov,” Yuuri sighs.

* * *

 They hit their first relationship milestone that night by arguing at the dinner table.

“I invited you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but only because you _hijacked_ my date! It was my turn to show you somewhere nice, and you make it about yourself.”

“You went along with it, though.” Victor twirls the stem of his empty wine glass.

Yuuri doesn’t have a response for that. He seethes silently with what (he thinks) is an angry expression, but it comes off more like a pout.

“But,” Victor says pompously, “I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll compromise.”

“Fine. Split?”

“Split.”

Yuuri opens up the receipt book and scribbles down a tip, the illogicality of feeling happy about spending money overwhelmed by the buzzy glow of excess alcohol and _winning_. Victor watches him in amusement, hands propped under his chin and shadows cutting across his face in the dim light.

“You’re so beautiful,” Victor mumbles, too quiet for other ears to pick up. He says a lot of things he doesn’t mean on the television; after all, it’s hard to genuinely care about people you can’t even see. But he means it here, eyes only for Yuuri with the messy black hair and soft cheeks and clumsy first-timer kisses.

He just hopes that Yuuri knows that.

* * *

 “I don’t really want this night to end,” Yuuri says absently, playing with the edges of the tablecloth. “I had fun, today.”

Victor smiles. “Me too.” He hesitates, testing the ice before forging ahead. “Are you up for being dragged somewhere else tonight?”

A glimmer of amusement flashes in Yuuri’s eye. “Maybe.” The end of the word lilts up. The world swims by slowly as if suspended in sugar syrup.

“I can take you to visit Makkachin,” he says carefully, “unless...you don’t feel like it.” An open door, a way in and a way out.

Yuuri snorts. “Victor, I had a dog once. Doesn’t that tell you how much I love them?”

“Well, that’s debatable—but is that a yes?”

Yuuri smiles for real, a dazzling curve of the lips that makes Victor’s heart soar. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘no’ to you so far, Victor Nikiforov. Scientifically speaking, the data shows a clear trend.” He leans in close, speaking in a low, confidential tone. “But situationally speaking? Yes.”

Who knew science majors could make him swoon.

* * *

 Yuuri is oddly fascinated by Uber—the way that a few taps of a button could make a car roll up to the street within minutes. “We don’t have that in our prefecture,” he marvels.

“Nor in Russia, either, until a few years ago,” Victor replies. “It gets easier when you live here for a while.”

The Uber driver is an absolute angel; which means that he leaves Yuuri and Victor in the backseat alone, making only the barest greeting and turning a polite eye away from Yuuri’s head leaned against Victor’s shoulder. Having bypassed the party-drunk phase entirely for sleepy-drunk stupor, Yuuri’s head bobs sleepily as he tries to stay awake for a little while longer.

He must be failing, though, because he doesn’t even stir when Victor carefully digs his phone from his pocket and takes a selfie, Yuuri obviously nodding off on Victor, who has a giddy grin on his face. He sends it in a DM to Phichit on Instagram, with a “he’ll be at my place tonight” added. (Phichit sends back two thumbs-up emojis and a motherly “stay safe”.)

Traffic peters out the farther away from downtown they drive, and by the time they reach the apartment complex, theirs is the only car on the street. Poorly lit streetlamps over the eerie sidewalk, Victor is silently grateful that they drove instead of walked; however, the sad, betrayed look on Yuuri’s face when Victor shakes him awake all but breaks his heart. He thanks the driver as Yuuri holds onto his backpack by one strap, shoulders sleepy.

Victor punches in the passcode to the main door and holds it open for Yuuri, mock-bowing like a gentleman. Yuuri tips an invisible top hat as he passes by. The apartment building is an odd mix of post-white-flight Detroit and creeping gentrification; the security system is obviously well-maintained, but iron bars all over the first-floor windows make the whole place eerie. Orange lights cast purple shadows on the brick exterior. Yuuri imagines that they would be swarming with moths and flies in the summertime. If winter has one glorious benefit, it’s that it sends all the arthropods scurrying back to the circle of hell from whence they came.

Victor kisses Yuuri on the head in the elevator; his hair smells like soap and the cold.

“I feel like I’m always taking, and you’re always giving,” Yuuri mumbles.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor breathes, “You don’t know what you’ve done for _me_.”

“What is that?”

A secret smile plays on Victor’s face. “Someday you’ll know.”

* * *

 Yuuri stifles a yawn when the elevator doors open.

“Tired?” Victor asks, though the raise of his eyebrows indicates that he already knows the answer.

“I told you I don’t go out often.”

The dog is scratching at the door as soon Victor’s keys rattle in the lock, and he all but leaps on Victor when the door finally opens. Makkachin covers his face in frenzied kisses, front paws on Victor’s shoulders and tail whipping around.

“Say hello, Makka,” Victor says, and immediately Makkachin tackles Yuuri, who takes a small step backward to prop up the dog’s weight. He’s exactly like Vicchan come back to life, and the unpleasant twist in his chest lingers. It’s not enough, though, to keep Yuuri from laughing as Makkachin sniffs his hair eagerly, his ears twitching when he sneezes. The curly texture of his fur is comforting.

“He likes you,” Victor chirps.

“So I’ve noticed,” Yuuri replies, giving Makkachin’s ear a good scratch. “I like you too.”

“Are you talking to me, or the dog?”

“Both.”

Victor’s soft eyes and gentle smile never fail to make Yuuri’s head short-circuit and his heart pound. He hopes that someday it will wear off; so that at least, he can love Victor in a normal state.

* * *

 “Are you too sleepy to watch a movie?” Victor asks, gently pushing Yuuri to the couch and removing his coat and bag. Makkachin hops up beside Yuuri and curls up into a big furry ball, his curly head resting on his thigh.

“Depends. What’s on Netflix?”

Victor thinks for a few moments, unfolding a big throw from his closet and draping it on Yuuri’s lap. “ _Anastasia_?” He proposes. “Ever heard of it?”

“No, what’s it about?” Victor crosses over to Yuuri’s free, unoccupied side and pushes the coffee table forward, allowing Yuuri to rest his legs on it. (His mother would probably have an aneurysm if she saw them doing that, but Yuuri chooses not to mention it.)

“It’s a cartoon movie about Tsar Nicholas’ lost daughter.” Picking up the remote, he clicks the letters in the search bar one by one. The familiar cover jumps out at him, the art style so close to Disney’s that it’s nearly indistinguishable from their princesses.

“How Russian of you,” Yuuri says wryly.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. If I had judged you based on looks,” Victor jokes, “we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Yuuri gasps exaggeratedly. “Oh, wow. And you accuse  _me_ of being too cruel. That was _almost_ too far.” Victor leans over and pecks Yuuri’s cheek.

“Only a joke, darling.”

“I don’t forgive you, sweetheart.”

* * *

Careful not to jostle Yuuri out of his sleep, Victor reaches to shut off the TV while trying his hardest not to move the shoulder Yuuri’s leaning on. Anastasia’s in Paris, Dmitri her kidnapper-turned-savior bargaining with Sophie, but they’ll have to finish the movie some other time. Makkachin half-opens his eyes and yawns shrilly, watching Victor with disinterest before closing them again.

They pass out like that, Victor and Yuuri resting on each other’s shoulders and legs tangled up so naturally, light snow floating behind the window. The city is quiet for a fleeting moment, as if lost in winter’s touch, which swallows up the streets but cannot reach behind the glass.

It’s cold for March, but only warmth lingers in their small apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I hope you didn’t want them to do the do? I just love fluff so much. I could bump this up to “explicit” if I wanted to…but I don’t want to.
> 
> I have never watched Anastasia before, though I have passed by it many times on Netflix. I just feel like that's something Victor would watch, and then laugh at because it's so inaccurate. (But he'd watch it again because he secretly liked it.)
> 
> Somehow this turned into Netflix instead of late-night infomercials and Antiques Roadshow? No idea how that happened. I originally planned for them to fall asleep in front of the TV during a ShamWow commercial like old farts. Oh well. That's why I try not to plan too far before I write.
> 
> It is highly frowned upon to make rosé by mixing red and white wine, but it does happen with cheaper brands.
> 
> Now that I think about it, there were so many smut red-flags in this chapter: sudden implications, lots of red wine, Netflix and chill...oops. I actually didn’t plan smut here for several reasons, so I’m sorry if you’ve been misled. I hope this fluff is tooth-rotting enough for you to forgive me.
> 
> What do you call a waffle on a California beach? A sandy Eggo.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blush deepening, Yuuri hides his smile behind a dry plate. “Okay, okay. Really, though, what do you have in mind?”  
> “Well, it’s got something to do with trains….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of waiting, I’m back with the update you’ve all been anticipating! I’ve been sitting on this chapter’s drafts for the past three months, and I would have published them a lot faster if not for, well, life. Life tends to get in the way.
> 
> I apologize for the long hiatus, and it’s only fair that you know why it happened. In short: this year has been really, really hard. I haven’t been happy enough to write this for a long time. I’ve only been able to update two measly fics this year, and just looking at the tags on those particular works can tell you all about my mental state. 
> 
> But enough about me: on to "Victor and Yuuri's Date: Part Deux"!

A chill has crept into the apartment by morning, which settles into Victor’s shoulders like the crick in his neck. Makkachin gives him a meaningful look, his head still propped on his paws and body sprawled on the rug. His joints feel all sorts of fucked, but he would stay like this forever just to feel Yuuri’s arms around him, attached like a limpet in his sleep. With his free arm he gropes for his phone and snaps a few pictures of Yuuri’s face, half-buried in his shirt and glasses askew.

As carefully as he can, Victor disentangles from the couch and lays Yuuri’s head down on a couch pillow. His left side feels cold without his body heat and already he itches to jump back in, comfort be damned. But with no small amount of regret he continues to the bathroom, taking a quick shower and brushing his teeth.

Makkachin’s eyes follow him as he walks to the kitchen; Victor raises his eyebrows and mouths “what?” at him when he passes. His fluffy ears immediately perk up when Victor brings the dog food out from its cabinet under the sink (secured with a baby-proof lock ever since the Kibble Incident). Makkachin is halfway to the bowl before his food even clatters to the bottom, munching greedily. Yawning, Victor searches the fridge for milk.

* * *

 Yuuri wakes up to the sounds of sizzling and a pair of paws digging into his thigh. Makkachin looks at him with his tongue lolling, leaning his front paws on Yuuri’s body while the rest of him is planted on the carpet. Yuuri makes a face at him as he readjusts his glasses (which, no doubt, probably also left a nasty indentation in his cheek).

“Good morning, sunshine,” Victor says, as soon as Yuuri pops his head over the couch back.

“Are you making pancakes?” Yuuri squints at the spatula in his hand and the pan on the stove.

“From scratch.”

“Oh, god, I love you,” Yuuri blurts. Victor’s eyes widen, but he resolutely swivels his gaze back to the pan and downward. He’s lucky that Yuuri can’t see him flushing crimson under the hood lights and trying to suppress a goofy grin.

Victor changes the subject. “You can use the shower. Clean towels are in the cabinet under the sink and you can borrow stuff from my closet if you want.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri squeaks.

He waves the spatula. “Now shoo, or you’ll be late for pancakes.”

Victor’s never seen anyone more eager to get off the couch.

* * *

 “Wow,” Yuuri breathes, leaning over his plate of pancakes and letting his glasses fog up with condensation. Victor stifles a laugh with the back of his hand, still holding onto his fork. “These look better than diner pancakes.”

“What diner are _you_ going to?” He tries for a disbelieving tone, but it’s difficult around a mouthful of pancake and syrup. A lot of it comes out muffled instead. “I mean, I’m pretty good at making breakfast, but not _that_ good.”

Yuuri’s made a small pool of syrup and butter mixed together at the side of his plate; cutting dainty bites of pancake, he dips them in one at a time. The faces he makes are adorably, laughably, orgasmic.

“I don’t really like American food,” Yuuri admits, with a sip of coffee. “But there are some dishes that would have me on a plane to the U.S. in a heartbeat. This,” he waves his fork at his plate, “is one of them.”

“I’m honored. These are similar to pancakes that we had in Russia, so I already knew the recipe. I’m actually not that great at cooking....”

“Shh,” Yuuri cuts him off. “Don’t ruin it for me.” He presses a finger to Victor’s mouth to silence him, but it ends up sticking as he withdraws it. It makes Victor sputter.

“Eww, you’ve got syrupy hands.”

“You’ve got a syrupy mouth!”

“Wanna test that hypothesis, Mr. Scientist?”

Yuuri flushes a deep red. Screwing his eyes shut, he dives across the table for a quick kiss, which Victor meets—but he doesn’t notice Victor sneakily snatching a piece of pancake from his plate until it’s too late. As they pull away from each other, Victor stuffs his stolen prize into his mouth triumphantly.

That’s when Yuuri deploys his secret weapon: puffing his cheeks and screwing his mouth, he produces a pout that could bring Cupid to his knees.

Giggling, Victor pokes his cheeks. “You look like a tomato when you’re doing that.”

 _Crap, it backfired_.

Quick as a flash, Yuuri spots his opportunity and seizes it by the collar; his fork makes a deft dive under Victor’s arm and spears a sector of pancake from his plate. It’s halfway into his mouth by the time the shock even registers on Victor’s cute, dumb face.

Victor narrows his eyes and crosses his arms, leaning away to press his back against the chair. “Well played,” he says.

Yuuri’s tongue darts out to swipe at syrup at the corner of his mouth. “Now,” he hums, “we’re even.”

Sticking his tongue out petulantly, Victor preemptively shields his pancakes with his arms before returning to eating. “Truce?”

Yuuri pretends to mull over it, still grinning triumphantly. “Truce.”

Clicking their forks together to seal the deal, the rest of breakfast passes in uneasy peace. Makkachin, for his part, is completely unaffected; a neutral third-party, he cares only about dropped pancake pieces and stray bits of bacon offered from Victor.

* * *

 “Do you have any plans for today?” Victor looks over at Yuuri, elbow-deep in dirty dishes and soapy water.

Another plate clacks into the drying rack. Yuuri tosses his dish towel from hand to hand idly. “Depends who’s asking,” he replies, reaching for a pair of freshly-washed forks to dry.

“Well?”

“You see, I’m kinda waiting on this guy to ask me out on a date,” Yuuri says casually. Victor’s face falls for a split-second before he catches Yuuri’s sly smile from the corner of his eye. “I’m just _dying_ for another chance to see him.”

“Oh?” Victor passes over a shiny-clean mixing bowl. “Sounds to me like he’s leading you on.”

Yuuri sighs dramatically. “Yeah, but he’s quite the catch. Sweet guy. You might know him. He’s on TV. Practically a celebrity.”

“He can’t be that sweet if he’s been leaving you hanging,” Victor grins. “Why don’t you ditch this guy for a date with me? What say you?”

Yuuri leans toward Victor, tilting his face closer. “That sounds tempting. When?”

“Today.” Victor’s eyes are smoldering.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“No, really? Because I should probably change clothes or something—”

“ _Pfft_. Yuuri!” Victor’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and he breaks their gaze, breaks the illusion. “I was kidding.”

Blush deepening, Yuuri hides his smile behind a dry plate. “Okay, okay. Really, though, what do you have in mind?”

“Well, it’s got something to do with trains….”

* * *

 “Yuuri? Oh my god. You scared the living daylights out of me. I can’t believe you’re still alive! And...slamming doors like a madman, disturbing my beauty sleep....”

“Ugh, Phichit. Shouldn’t you be awake by now? Why is everything so hard to find—? Where’s my nice sweater? God, I need to refold my clothes.”

“What, not staying? Just popping into your dorm, making a giant racket with your drawers? Glad I’m such an important part of your life.”

“You’re important, geez. Such a diva. Victor’s waiting outside for me, okay? I gotta hurry.”

“Ooh, your date’s turned into a double-feature? Lucky you.”

“Lucky me. Gah, I need to comb my hair....”

“Mm-hmm. You do. Where are you going?”

“Uhh.”

“Oh no. I _know_ that look. Now you _have_ to tell me.”

“We’re...riding the train. Around the city. For, like, three hours. Or as long as it takes for us to get kicked off.”

“ _Pfft_ —! Ha! Oh my god.”

“Stop laughing! Phichit! Stop it! It’s...more romantic than it sounds!”

“You two are _such dorks_! Train-loving, cute, _nerds_!”

“I...don’t deny that.”

“Yuuri, I officially forgive you for waking me up on a Sunday. This is way too funny.”

“It’s not _that_ funny! Stop snickering!”

“Never!”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re hopeless. Now get outta here. You kids have fun.”

“...Thanks, Phichit. Bye.”

“See ya. And turn the lights off on your way out!”

* * *

 “This might be the worst date I’ve ever been on,” Yuuri joked, huddling around himself in the cold.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes at Victor. “Victor, I can give you five reasons why this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, and what would those be, my partner-in-crime?”

“Well, one,” Yuuri begins counting off on his fingers, “We’re sitting at a completely-deserted train station, on a Sunday.” He holds his arms out wide and spins in a circle, as if to illustrate the emptiness of the platform. But bundled as he is, in full winter attire, he looks more like a spinning marshmallow.

Pulling his peacoat tighter around his body, Victor nods. “Go on.”

Yuuri sticks his tongue out at him. “Two,” he says, “I’m pretty sure we’re fare-jumping.”

“Oh, no!” Victor cries in mock distress. “We’ve single-handedly bankrupted the city of Detroit by failing to pay the train fare fifty times!”

“Two ‘a’: I’m pretty sure dogs aren’t allowed on the People Mover.”

Victor glances down at Makkachin, sitting prim and proper and fixing his shiny eyes on his. “He’s harmless! And big enough to pass as a human if I throw my coat on him. I’ve done that before.”

Huffing, Yuuri shushes him. “Three,” he continues, “I’m freezing to death out here, and the train won’t be any different.”

“This is the warmest it’s been all week, and I would know.”

“Four,” he cuts in, “Phichit laughed at me when I told him where I was going, and the humiliation will last _all day_.” He contorts his face dramatically, putting on a mock-pained expression and swooning.

Victor snorts.

“But, five—what’s worst of all,” Yuuri finishes, gesticulating wildly as if to bring his tirade to a grand finale, “One afternoon isn’t nearly enough time to spend with you, the dork who brought us here.”

Victor catches Yuuri’s hands in mid-air, covering Yuuri’s cold fingers with his warm ones. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for that, won’t we?” Brushing his lips across Yuuri’s knuckles, he smiles and it makes a blossoming blush spread over Yuuri’s face.

The train glides into the station, giving a pleasant chime. Its doors slide open—and it is completely, blessedly, unoccupied.

“Come on,” Victor says, leading Yuuri by the hand to the open doors.

* * *

 Michigan Avenue is quiet on this Sunday, owing to the cold weather and the sleepiness of the weekend. Even the Rosa Parks Transit Center, across the street, lacks the bustle that it normally boasts. Its white cradle shelters no commuters.

Victor catches Yuuri chewing at the scenery and smiles.

“This is what I see from work every day,” he says, and Yuuri pouts.

“Lucky you. Maybe I should have taken up a communications major.”

“I won’t deny that it has its perks,” Victor agrees. “I mean, the reserved parking, branded mugs, and on-site makeup artists are pretty nice.”

“But you can’t wear green,” Yuuri points out. Victor reaches out to finger the collar of Yuuri’s evergreen college sweater, peeking out from his tightly-zipped jacket.

“You have a point.” He flicks the hem idly, grinning. “But you look better in green than I do.”

Yuuri’s tone turns teasing. “Well, I’d better wear a lot more green from now on.”

“Why? Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No.” Breaking away from Victor’s side, Yuuri paces to the opposite end of the train. The rusty tracks recede at a slow but steady pace. “I’d just like to rub it in.”

“Are all biochem majors this cruel?” The glass reflects Victor, with a classic wounded expression on his face. It wavers between fake-hurt and smug as Yuuri turns around and sidles toward him again.

His gloved hands cup Victor’s face and he leans in for a quick, chaste peck on the lips. “Be flattered,” Yuuri says softly. “I’m cruel to the people I love.”

“That sounds creepy.” Nonetheless, Victor dips forward to steal another one. “But consider me charmed.”

He knows what Yuuri means; his sharp, biting wit is not reserved for polite conversation. It’s play, and Victor is privileged to have Yuuri relaxed enough, happy enough, to play. A secret facet of his personality—restricted to close friends. Perhaps one day, Yuuri would deign to give Victor a secret quirk that was his alone to witness.

The train lurches as it stops on Times Square; Yuuri’s grip tightens slightly around his biceps to keep his balance. In turn, Victor’s arms loop lazily around Yuuri’s waist and keep him close. The station is empty, but maybe—just maybe—someone might catch a glimpse of them frozen, in a warm embrace, from the window of the Book Tower.

But Victor is so soft to the touch, and Yuuri can’t really bring himself to care.

* * *

 After a few stops, Yuuri perfects his quick-draw with his digital camera. Within three seconds, he can have it torn from his pocket, powered-up, and his finger on the capture button.

“You’re such a tourist,” Victor teases.

For that, Yuuri spins like lightning and catches him mid-grin, mouth open like a dork. It’s a bad one for sure, and he’ll _definitely_ hold that over Victor’s head. Tilting his camera triumphantly, he checks his recent photos.

And it’s a photo of Victor, caught mid-grin, looking for all the world like he’d posed there for hours. He looks beautiful. Beautifully infuriating.

Yuuri huffs in irritation. Victor peeks over his shoulder and laughs.

“What can I say?” He says. “It’s impossible to take a bad photo of me.”

“Shut up.”

* * *

 The financial district is almost dead; not even the most zombified of workaholics drag themselves into work on a Sunday. Still, the buildings are always a pleasant sight: all glass and steel, sharply modern in contrast to a peeling and destitute background.

In the train, Makkachin stands on his hind legs to admire his reflection whizzing by, propping his paws on the window and leaving prints on the ice. Victor shucks off his gloves and presses two identical handprints above Makkachin’s, swearing when warm skin meets cold glass. Yuuri laughs at him before scratching a shy “V + Y” into the ice with his fingernail. Victor draws a heart around their initials, and they begin drawing on the window. They ruin the delicate crystals beginning to snake up from the window borders, replacing it with icy art.

For a few, rocky minutes, Yuuri writes his name in Japanese and attempts to re-create Victor’s in hiragana. The characters are simple, Victor catching on in no time. Victor, for his part, spells out his own name in Russian, but fumbles over transferring Yuuri’s into Cyrillic. It’s amusing to watch Victor’s mouth move silently, testing the sounds of each character to fit “Yuuri Katsuki”. In the end, a passing pigeon causes Makkachin to jump up and scratch at the glass furiously, ruining the whole lesson.

Victor shows Yuuri how to make footprints on the glass with the side of his hand, and Yuuri crafts detailed thumbprint snowmen and hand turkeys. They get more ambitious, spreading beyond a single window and around the entire car—Victor hefts Makkachin into his arms like a baby and stamps trails of pawprints leading to the train doors, while Yuuri scratches a twenty-foot caterpillar wiggling up and down the windows. The train goes one or two loops (neither is sure of how many) before much of their original artwork is indistinguishable, frosted-over, and their hands have lost too much heat to properly melt shapes into the ice. Victor, the cold-hardy guy he is, comes away with pale, clammy hands, while Yuuri sports blue fingertips to match his jacket.

But the Michigan winter isn’t so bad, Yuuri thinks, as Victor cradles Yuuri’s cold hands in his and breathes warm air onto them.

* * *

 The city of Windsor stretches all along the far end of the Detroit River as they pass the frozen waters. It’s been an unseasonably cold winter, and thus the river is nearly frozen through. A sizable stretch of water in the middle, though, is still liquid on the surface, and the current weakly pushes broken floes of ice along. Cars have packed the international bridge—families, probably, returning home after a weekend visit. If only it were always so simple.

“Do you ever feel jealous?” Yuuri asks, pointing at the blurry shapes of cars passing over. “That people can just _drive_ into another country?”

“Sort of,” Victor says, “It really depends on your location.”

“Well, no—I mean—I wish it was that simple for me to visit home. Don’t you?”

Victor looks wistfully across the river, but his answer is definite. “No.”

For a second, genuine surprise flashes across Yuuri’s face, as if he’d not even considered

that to be an answer. It goes as quickly as it had come. “Why not?” He ventures cautiously. Something tells him that this is new territory, and cautions him to tread carefully.

“It’s okay if I don’t visit often.” Victor says casually, “Flying is so troublesome. Besides,” he glances at Yuuri, “Russia’s not really my home anymore.”

Yuuri’s expression is blank. “It’s not?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so plaintive and childish.

For once, Victor’s broadcast-perfect speech stumbles. “It wasn’t even my home before I left. My family—they are—quite...conservative, you know.”

Oh. Yuuri knows now.

“But I met you here,” Victor continues, attempting to brighten the conversation, “you, and my co-workers, and my friends—you make me feel like I’m at home.”

And Yuuri, stunned and wordless, can do nothing but wrap his arms around Victor’s shoulders and nestle his head in the crook of Victor’s neck.

Considering his words for a few moments, Yuuri finally speaks.

“I guess you’ll just have to visit _my_ family, then.”

“Hmm?” Victor’s face rests against Yuuri’s hair.

Yuuri smiles into Victor’s shoulder, and even through layers of wool Victor can feel the shift, the change in his voice. “My mother,” Yuuri says, “would love you.”

And even through layers of messy hair, Yuuri can feel Victor blinking hard, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

* * *

 “I wonder how easy it really is,” Yuuri muses, on their fifth pass of the Detroit River, “to cross the border. Like, do you just drive across the bridge and find yourself in Canada?”

Victor hums. “I don’t know. Why don’t we try that out?”

“Victor, we can’t just take a casual trip to Canada.”

“Not with that attitude, we won’t.”

* * *

 But eventually, someone _does_ catch on to their fare-jumping scheme: maybe it’s an office drone, wondering why the same two guys have been on the train for nearly four hours, or maybe someone actually checks the security cameras. Who knows, except the disgruntled employee who eventually flags them down and gives them the “this-ain’t-a-hotel, no-pets-allowed” lecture.

And Victor, ever the charmer, explains ever so politely that no, of course it isn’t ma’am, I was just showing around my foreign friend, I didn’t know dogs weren’t allowed, he has separation anxiety, I apologize profusely. Yuuri summons all his acting skills (which are sadly close to none) and feigns confusion, muttering in Japanese and trying his best to look like a lost tourist. With his digital camera looped around his neck, it’s quite convincing.

Almost as convincing as Victor, whose polished appearance and well-mannered demeanor make him look like he stepped straight out of the newsroom.

Maybe it’s because most of Detroit knows Victor’s face, or that Yuuri’s eyes look so sad, or Makkachin sits so primly, that they get off the hook. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that their act holds (“Just a warning, sir”); Makkachin trots like a prize-winning show dog as Victor visibly struggles to maintain his composure and Yuuri’s smothering his mouth so that he won’t laugh and give them away.

It takes several minutes for them to catch their breath in the car, their pent-up giggles spilling like water from a dam.

* * *

 In bed, by the yellow light of his desk lamp, Victor’s phone is 500-or-so photos richer than it was that morning. Most of them are blurred beyond recognition, caught between the unfortunate jerking of the train pulling away from its station. Some of them, though, are clear enough to make out: Yuuri, lips pursed in an “o” shape as he writes his name in a window; himself and a thousand reflections in the windows of a building behind him; Yuuri, legs brought onto the train seats, taking up four as he aims his camera at the Canadian skyline.

Yuuri looks wonderful in every single one of them. It’s impossible to take a bad photo of Yuuri, Victor thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and readership! I really appreciate it.
> 
> As for where this fic is headed, I now have a good idea. It’s slowing down. I’d say that we are two-thirds into the story at this point, so not much left. It was always my intention to treat this as fluff, and not to take it too seriously. It’s just two cuties, in love, whatever. What really stopped me from writing new chapters was that I had no idea how to end the story. Now I know, and I hope that my productivity will be kicked back into gear as a result.
> 
> Almost forgot! This video (https://youtu.be/GVOj1PxGiUY) was AWESOME for my research on the People Mover! I suggest watching it to get the full dorky-train-nerd-date experience.


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